


Softer, Sherlock  (aka: The Lost Special)

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fix-It, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock's point of view, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, The Final Problem, The Lost Special, Whump, season 4 fix-it, some of the dialogue re-imagined, tfp is john's mind bungalow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 00:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10820112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: This is the longest cab ride of Sherlock's life. And he's been in one with a serial killer for a driver, so that's saying a lot. The detective fumbles with his phone. Why isn't John answering? He knows why: he's at his therapist's house.------This is a fix-it fic for season 4 / The Final Problem. I got so tired of waiting for a Lost Special that I wrote one myself.This fic was written from the belief that at the end of The Lying Detective, John Watson actually gets shot by Eurus. With a real gun. In 'The Lost Special', in my mind at least (for this fic), we see what happens to Sherlock after John is shot.You will recognise a lot of dialogue from The Final Problem, because John picks it up in his unconscious state of mind and creates a nightmare out of it.





	Softer, Sherlock  (aka: The Lost Special)

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this work was inspired by some of the meta written by incredible tjlc'ers – I can't name some because I would certainly forget others. Also, a special thanks to Rebekah's videos, who inspired me to join the fandom. A very special thanks goes out to athousandslowlydyingfangirls.tumblr.com for proofreading my work at an earlier stage and encouraging me to keep going. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading.

** Prologue: **

 

'Get out!', Sherlock yells, impatiently opening the door. But his client, a heavy-set, slightly balding man, stays put, right underneath the skull in his living room.

 

'She's possessed by the devil”, the client protests. 'I swear my wife is channeling Satan!'

 

'Yes, boring! Go away.' Sherlock points, and the man leaves angrily.

 

'I'm _not_ channeling Satan', his wife decides to add for good measure. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Why is _she_ here, anyway.

 

'Why not? Given your immediate alternative...'

 

Sherlock slams the door closed and walks back to the living room. _What a gigantic waste of time._ But suddenly he notices something lying on the floor, close to John's old chair – a note. He picks it up, it rustles. _I need to kill someone_ , it reads. It's Faith Smith's note.

 

It was the note that lead him to Culverton Smith. The detective shudders. He can still feel the taste of Culverton's sweaty hands pressed to his lips. He didn't _want_ to die. Not if –

 

But who gave the note to him? That question has been nagging at his mind ever since the real Faith walked into that morgue. He'd never seen her before in his life. But then, how did he get her note? He flaps it around, weighs the paper. Smells it – there's a faint lemony smell. He previously thought that meant the paper had been hanging in a kitchen for a while. But something does not sit quite right.

 

It isn't until he shines an ultraviolet flashlight at it, that the note reveals its true, terrifying nature. In large letters, written across in invisible ink:

 

_MISS_

_ME?_

 

***

 

This is the longest cab ride of Sherlock's life. And he's been in one with a serial killer for a driver, so that's saying a lot. The detective fumbles with his phone. Why isn't John answering? He knows why: he's at his therapist's house. Perhaps she could be useful and talk him out of wearing those awful jumpers.

 

_On my way over. SH_

 

_Not for joint therapy. If that's what you're thinking. SH_

 

_Urgent. Put your jacket on. SH_

 

_It concerns Moriarty. Please reply. SH_

 

Ever since reading the note, it's like a bear trap has closed around his heart. Something is plainly wrong, he can feel it. A premonition? _Don't be absurd._ He doesn't believe in those. This is the result of a long logical sum he's making in his mind, and somewhere deep down he has figured out the answer already but on the surface level he's still stuck in the middle. Thus Sherlock is nervously fidgeting in the backseat of a smelly cab and doesn't really understand why. And now John isn't answering his phone.

 

_M wrote a message on that Culverton note. Please reply. SH_

 

_John? SH_

 

_John your phone is certainly buzzing. SH_

 

_John? SH_

 

Still nothing. As the taxi pulls up the therapist's driveway, Sherlock throws some money at the driver – way too much, but this isn't the time to negotiate fees – and jumps out, sprints at the door. It's open. Odd. Last time he was here, he arrived in the boot of a car and he had been quite high on drugs at the time, but he's fairly sure no therapist would keep her door so carelessly unlocked. Perhaps there was a burglary. But no signs of forced entry. So something else, then.

 

'John?' he yells in the hallway. He runs, nearly knocks over a vase.

 

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat the moment he enters the living room. There, on a huge red carpet, is John. He's lying ominously still. Sherlock's heart stops beating for three long seconds, seems to drop to his shoes, before he runs over to the bleeding shape of a man. The carpet is shaped like a giant blood stain, he's not even sure how much is blood and how much is cloth. Next to John on the floor, something is written in blood – _John's blood_ , Sherlock realises with horror; it's one word: _Eurus._

 

'John? Wake up! Wake up! John?'

 

Sherlock tries to control the panic prickling behind his eyes. He can't let emotion take over now, he must do this right. With one hand he tries to feel John's pulse, with the other he takes out his phone. He could call an ambulance, but they'll need a little incentive.

 

'Send help. Now', he barks into the phone. 'Mycroft. I'm bleeding out. I'm _dying_.' He lies, and puts a little tremor in his voice as if he's really faint from bloodloss – he figures that'll make Mycroft both soil his panties and hurry like hell.

 

Sherlock quickly recites the address and throws his cellphone to the side. John is unconscious, and seems to be bleeding from his chest. _Tiny hole in his black shirt, but no ruffled edges. Bullet hole then._ Sherlock starts unbuttoning the shirt, but his fingers are shaking too much, so he just tears it open. Blood. A lot of blood. Sherlock feels slightly dizzy from the sight of it – it reminds him of Mary, the blood pumping through his own chest after she shot him, the blood spurting from hers when she died. John can't die, Sherlock decides.

 

'John, wake up', he repeats. 'Please. For Rosie. For –'

 

He swallows. He really needs his doctor to guide him through this. He remembers being ordered around not so long ago, when that royal guard Bainbridge lay dying outside the shower. _Nurse, press here, hard._ 'I really have to press. Press away', he mumbles to himself.

 

 _Give me your scarf. Quickly, now,_ Sherlock remembers John saying. So he rips off his scarf and puts it on the wound, pushes down. The blood is warm and keeps flowing – a 'good' sign, he supposes, it means John is still alive. He lowers his head to John's mouth, tries to feel a hint of a breath on his cheek. Is he breathing? Sherlock is not sure. He doesn't dare let go of the wound now, he can't move, not ever, anymore.

 

A panting man arrives in the doorway, allowing helicopter and ambulance noises from the outside to flood in. Sherlock looks up, his eyes at once filling with tears.

 

'Mycroft', he says, sounding more like a little boy now than ever before.

 

'Why don't you come out and show yourself', Mycroft shouts towards the hallway, where frantic footsteps echo. 'I don't have time for this!' He doesn't mention the fact that it's not _Sherlock_ who's dying, and Sherlock is grateful.

 

As Mycroft steps into the room, medics rush in – though Sherlock isn't entirely certain he can let go now. What if that's what pushes John over the edge? But Mycroft tugs gently at his shoulders.

 

'You have to let them do their job now. They know how to treat bullet wounds', Mycroft says soothingly. 'You of all people know that.'

 

Sherlock stumbles backwards, sits on the floor, his blood-covered hands shaking. One of the medics leans on top of John. It looks almost like a violent act, Sherlock observes, cardiopulmonary resuscitation. He feels the sudden urge to hit the medics in the face for hurting John, shaking his body, perhaps even breaking a rib. He won't allow himself to think about the odds of surviving CPR – dying is _not_ an option.

 

'What happened?' Mycroft asks after long, excruciating minutes.

 

Sherlock blinks. Surely it's quite obvious?

 

'Someone hurt John Watson.' _My Watson._

 

'Who? Moriarty?'

 

Sherlock shakes his head. He points at the letters on the floor. Written in blood – by? By John? By the murderer – _attempted_ murderer? Eurus. A strange word. Perhaps a name.

 

Mycroft's eyes widen. 'She can't have got out! She can't!'

 

A name then. But before he can react, the medics start moving John onto a stretcher. It makes the oddest noise – a sliding sound, a thump. The carpet and the floor are left stained with John's blood. Sherlock feels bile coming up.

 

'She was John's therapist. Shot him during a session', Sherlock says. He scrambles up from the floor, follows the medical team to the ambulance outside. Not the first time an ambulance arrived at this address, he ponders. The thought is like a knife twisting in his heart. This time there isn't the reassuring presence of Molly, it's not his useless, unimportant body that's up for examination. It's _John_ , and John can't die. Not like this, not after everything they've been through and survived.

 

As he moves to step into the ambulance after John, Mycroft grabs his arm.

 

'Sherlock, I know you're desperate and terrified, but you'll only get in the way in there. There's nothing for you to do.'

 

'I will not leave him.' Sherlock says, fuming.

 

'For God's sake!' Mycroft cries out, but then his eyes soften. Mycroft nods and lets him step into the ambulance. One of the medics looks appalled.

 

'He can't be in here', he tells Mycroft, glaring at Sherlock. 'It's the rules.'

 

'We're not pedestrians', a cold-faced Mycroft replies. 'I can have you fired right here on the spot.'

 

'This is family only', the medic barks.

 

'That's why he stays', Mycroft hisses, loudly and firmly. The doors close, and Mycroft goes to the passenger's seat to sit in front. He's already making phone calls, probably to make sure the best surgeons are called into work. Meanwhile Sherlock sits in the back, long limbs folded as small as possible, quietly staring at John, who's dying while he can only helplessly watch. He didn't acknowledge Mycroft's threats. But now at least Sherlock knows. Alone is _not_ what protects him.

 

***  
  
They've been sitting in the hospital's waiting room for three hours and forty-three minutes in complete silence when Mycroft stands up and lights a cigarette. Sherlock had felt the need for nicotine slowly gnawing away at his brother, tensing up the shoulder that was nearly touching Sherlock's. Oh, he too longs for an escape, but he won't let himself. John wouldn't like it, and he has to stay strong now. He craves a cigarette – or a seven percent solution – but he can't let himself. Smoking is giving it. It's telling the world: I know something's wrong. But it's not wrong, because _John can't die_.

 

However, Sherlock _is_ rather grateful for the secondhand smoke, it's all the relief he'll allow himself. Mycroft meets his eyes knowingly, but refrains from commenting. Just quietly lights cigarette after cigarette. It's another seventy-two minutes and six cigarettes later before a doctor comes out. No blood on his clothes, so the man has taken the time to change, Sherlock notes with pure loathing building up. _Why not inform us immediately, put us out of our misery?_  


The doctor, a greying man of seemingly Pakistani descent, shakes Mycroft's hand. Sherlock glares at the man's fingers. If those are the fingers that killed John Watson, he's not about to touch them respectfully.

 

'Gentlemen', he says. 'I'm doctor David Kuberner. I've been operating on John Watson.' His eyes shift between the brothers. 'The good news is, he's alive.'

 

A long sigh escapes Sherlock's throat – he didn't even know he'd been holding his breath. He didn't even know breathing could be this _physical_. His whole body is about to cave in, as if all this time he was but a puppet being held by very weak strings.

 

'What's the bad news?' Sherlock hears himself ask.

 

'We're... not sure he's going to wake up.'

 

***  


After a number of threats, uttered by both Sherlock and the British government, the brothers are escorted to John's bedside. But it almost physically hurts Sherlock – to see his friend, eyes closed, surrounded by machines, breathing through a tube, all wires and needles. He winces, but steps closer.

 

'Funny name, isn't it? _Intensive care_?' Sherlock's lip twitches as he slides his fingers past the rails of the bed, not yet daring to touch John. 'The machines do most of the work, anyway', he says. 'The ventilators, the endotracheal tube, the intravenous lines, the suction pumps, catheters. Where are all the doctors and nurses? They're supposed to be _carers_ , right? He's... all alone. That's not _intensive_.'

 

Sherlock is afraid to look up. But he can't look down, not at that unbearably vulnerable doctor fighting for his life in this cold room. He stares at his own finger, quivering near the headrest now, stopped in its tracks.

 

'Oh, Sherlock', Mycroft says, softly.

 

'Every choive I've ever made, every path I've ever taken, the man I am today...', Sherlock starts saying, but he can't bring himself to finish the sentence. It's _John_ , of course. _John made him_.

 

'Who did this?', Sherlock finally asks. It's a question that's been hanging between the siblings for hours and hours now. 'I want the truth.'

 

'The truth is rarely pure and never simple', Mycroft says, but his little brother looks like he's about the strangle him. He clears his throat. 'There were three Holmes kids.'

 

Sherlock's bottom lip drops. He steps a little closer to his brother, still keeping close to the rail of the hospital bed. Hearing the soft bleeps of the machines, monitoring for irregularities, yet feeling his own heartbeat speeding up as well. The sound is almost overpowering.

 

'What was the age gap?'

 

'Seven years between myself and you, one year between you and Eurus.'

 

There's a long pause, before Mycroft continues. 'You realise I'm the smart one?'

 

'As you never cease to announce', Sherlock says.

 

'But Eurus, she was incandescent even then. Our abilities were professionally assessed more than once. I was remarkable, but Eurus was described as an era-defining genius, beyond Newton.'

 

Sherlock's hand is shaking now. 'Then why don't I remember her', he asks softly.

 

'You do remember her, in a way. But... the memories are disturbing.' And as Mycroft explains, about Eurus hurting Sherlock, about their childhood dog, about how she taunted him and lit the house on fire, Sherlock feels his chest growing tighter. 'Who will find me, deep below the old beech tree', Mycroft softly sings. Sherlock starts whispering with him, the old childhood song. 'Help succour me now... the East Wind blow...'

 

'You're starting to remember', Mycroft says. 'She was supposed to be in a place called Sherrinford, a secure and very secretive installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call 'the uncontainables'. She hasn't left, not a single day. Whoever shot John, it can't have been her.'

 

Sherlock is trembling now, anger building up. So this is all Mycroft's fault. This happened under _his_ watch. He let her escape. 'Keep back', Mycroft says, gesturing toward Sherlock's arm. 'Keep as still as you can.'

 

Sherlock suddenly realises he's been holding John's hand.

 

***  
  
For three long weeks, Sherlock lingers near the intensive care unit, eyeing whoever passes by, to make sure John is safe. He's been allowed to visit him for one short hour once a day. Harry and her new girlfriend join him once or twice, but usually it's just him. The nurses keep bringing coffee, which he refuses, though he accepts tea. Sometimes he eats a sandwich they hand him warily, but mostly he throws away their food after fumbling with it all day long. He doesn't deserve food, he figures, because if he had found the message on the note sooner, John would be safe.

 

Mycroft hasn't returned, not even once. He's out searching for Eurus, Sherlock knows. Sometimes he texts. But Sherlock never replies.

 

Then one day, John is moved into a normal, private hospital room. His condition hasn't exactly improved, but it's stable, so he doesn't need as much pampering, Sherlock supposes. Without Mycroft's influence, John would have been moved out of intensive care ages ago, perhaps. It was undoubtedly meant as a reassurance, that John could stay in intensive care for so long, but Sherlock actually prefers the new, private room. Though there are guards outside, he'd rather personally make sure John is safe. And he needs to be there when John wakes up, of course. _Patience_ , the doctor had told him three weeks ago. Patience is heavy like a grenade on his chest.

 

***

 

Soon, more people start visiting. Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson come in with such serious looks on their faces – Sherlock can't bear it, but he accepts their chocolate and grapes politely like John would tell him to, and sends them away quickly. He declines Lestrade's offer to let him help on a case from the hospital room, because Sherlock can't be – _doesn't deserve to be_ – distracted. Not now.

 

Mrs Hudson drops by with an old dvd player and a whole stack of John's favourite films: all the Bond films, an awful lot of horror flics, lots of _Star Wars_ episodes and more _Star Trek_ than Sherlock could have imagined existed. Sherlock gives his landlady a pained look, all but rolling his eyes.

 

'He might hear _everything_ , you know', she says. 'And he could be incredibly bored in there. At least maybe he'll recognise his favourite films. It might make him want to wake up.'

 

'Want to wake up from the nightmare of having to endure those films, you mean?' Sherlock scoffs. He suspects Mrs Hudson secretly wants to distract _him –_ as if anything could. Or should.

 

'Well, John likes them', she says matter-of-factly. 'So suck it up, dear.'

 

The next time Mrs Hudson visits, Sherlock puts on _The Ring_. It was her idea to bring these cinematic abominations to the hospital room, after all, so she might as well share the misery of having to watch them. At first, Mrs Hudson is appalled – it's dreadfully scary, and the volume is too loud. 'Softer, Sherlock', she orders. Sherlock crosses his arms stubbornly, determined to watch but to not like a single second of it. But after a while, it's soothing to have Mrs Hudson in the room with him, and though they rarely talk, they sit and suffer through a bunch of films together, drinking tea and eating cookies Sherlock tries to guess the ingredients of, and even though he never thanks her, he quietly accepts her hugs at the end of her visits.

 

***  
  
Sherlock suddenly wakes from his half-sleep. It's the middle of the day, but he'd been drifting off a bit, seated beside the hospital bed but resting his head on the mattress, holding John's hand steadily. _Just in case he can feel it._ But he's now very aware of his surroundings, as a tall, lean figure is oscillating in the doorway. He rises.

 

'I'm not one of your doctors', the unexpected visitor says.

 

'Irene Adler', Sherlock observes, breathlessly. She was the last person he'd expect in this forsaken room. Sometimes he even forgets about the outside world altogether. He certainly hasn't thought about The Woman for a long, long time. 'How did you get past the guards?'

 

'Don't insult me', she replies, taking a few steps forward. But Sherlock immediately tenses in return.

 

'Maintain a distance of three feet', he says, rising his hand protectively.

 

The right corner of her mouth shifts downwards, she frowns. She hasn't come to hurt them, Sherlock deduces quickly, but he can't take any risks. He's very tired, after all. Not thinking straight. He eyes her carefully. Irene is wearing a short white leather jacket and matching pants. The woman is dressed modestly – for the likes of her, anyway – so, he concludes, she wants to send the message that she respects the gravity of the situation. Even more peculiar: she's holding a large gift. Sherlock takes the remote control and shuts off the dvd player, then the television.

 

'We've been watching... _Silence of the Lambs_ , appearantly', he says, reading the dvd box. 'One of John's favourites. No lambs so far, oddly enough.'

 

'And a bit too silent, since you just drifted off?' Irene half-smiles carefully. Sherlock couldn't stand a full smile, not now. But he's grateful that she's trying.

 

'You can trust me', she says.

 

'You've been bad', he says slowly. He doesn't know if she's still a pawn of Moriarty's, even after he saved her from that beheading – he's still not sure she wouldn't stab him in the back in a heartbeat. They've been playing this game of hide-and-seek for such a long time now. He's tired.

 

'There's no such thing as bad', she replies.

 

'That doesn't sound like something a dominatrix would say', Sherlock says. He allows her to step a bit closer, though, lets her lower the giant gift-wrapped box to the floor. She folds her arms, defensively yet provocatively. Sherlock doesn't break eyecontact as he reaches down to grab the gift and starts unwrapping it.

 

'Is it _grapes_? I'm so sick of getting fr–' Sherlock stops mid-sentence. Inside a beautiful, velvet box is an even more beautiful violin.

 

'It's a Stradivarius', Sherlock says, stunned.

 

'It's a gift', Irene replies.

 

'Who from?'

 

'Me.'

 

Sherlock lifts the violin instinctively to his shoulder, smells the exquisite wood, admires its shape. It's the first stunning thing to have entered this room since John arrived.

 

'Why?'

 

'You play, don't you?', Irene says. Sherlock fingers the bow with a trembling hand, his lip is quivering synchronically. _Stop it_ , he orders his body, _stop this now._

 

'Are you going to cry?' Irene asks, though it doesn't sound cruel. 'It's okay if you cry', she says softly. She averts her eyes, and it's the first time Sherlock has ever seen Irene Adler do something selfless.

 

'I don't need to cry', Sherlock says, and he starts playing. Keeping his eyes fixed on Irene, he decides to play Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor. It's familiar, and just enough his heart can handle while standing next to an unconscious, barely living John. John always liked hearing him play. He would sometimes make tea and listen in, and at the end of a long piece his tea wouldn't be touched at all, the water long gone cold, but John would still be staring at Sherlock, his face open as a young boy's, as moved as Sherlock had ever seen _anyone_. Sherlock wishes he'd told him, then... He thought for a long time his music told him. Perhaps it did. Perhaps John had the decency not to reply, not to wound him.

 

Irene puts her arm on Sherlock's. 'No, not Bach. Play you.'

 

'Me?', Sherlock asks. He hesitates. He decides to play Irene's song, the one he perfected when he thought she was dead. It's sad and beautiful and he never once closes his eyes. It tells her all she needs to know. After he's finished, he holds the violin close to his chest.

 

'You're not used to being unsure, are you?' Irene asks.

 

'It's more common than you think', Sherlock replies softly. But these past few weeks have been the worst insecurity he has ever experienced. He glances at John. Every once in a while John stirs, but the doctors say it doesn't mean anything, normal coma patient behaviour (what's _normal_?). It burns the detective's heart, every time, it kills him, little by little.

 

'Look at you', Irene whispers. She takes his hand, laces her fingers with his, surprising Sherlock. He's not used to being touched. Not like that. Irene looks at John, then into Sherlock's eyes. 'The man who sees through everything, is exactly the man who doesn't notice when there's nothing to see through.'

 

She breaks eye contact. 'I mean it, Sherlock. Moriarty didn't send me. I'm not here to mess with you or John. I thought you could use a friend.'

 

They remain silent for a long time. It's perfect.

 

'Did you ever tell him how you feel?' she asks eventually.

 

Sherlock swallows. He's looking for words, but it's as if they've disappeared into the music.

 

'You are a prisoner of your own meat', Irene Adler says. She looks sad. 'I'm going home to my wife. Yes. We're married now.'

 

Sherlock nods, it's as close to a _congratulations_ she's going to get.

 

'I should send you a text sometime, maybe the text alert sound will wake him up', Irene adds. Sherlock smiles at the memory, but Irene is already out the door, leaving him with his heavy instrument resting on his heart.  
  
***  
  
During the nights and days that seem more and more alike, Sherlock starts talking to John. About anything and everything they've been through. Recounts memories. _Remember the our first night at Angelo's, John? Remember the Garridebs case? If you come back, I promise I will eat, every day, three times if you ask me. I won't keep heads in the fridge anymore. And no more than two bags of thumbs._ Sherlock tells him his deductions about the nurse's love life – which he has kept to himself because he likes the way she carefully washes John; he doesn't want to scare her away. He tells John all about his university pal Victor Trevor. About how really, he hadn't known real friendship until he met John. He explains the refined system to his sock index. He lists all the times John made him laugh, even if he pretended to be offended. He talks and talks and every second he gets more desperate about John's silence, stares, urges him to just move one finger, one toe, _blink twice if you hear me_. And one night, exhausted, delirious, nearly broken, he even whispers in John's ear: _Vatican cameos_. _Vatican cameos. Vatican cameos._

 

***

They've just switched from old _Star Trek_ episodes – Sherlock hates Klingon (it's useless, if he ever needs it he'll simply call a geek interpreter), but John used to love watching it – to _Star Wars_ , when Mycroft walks in. He hasn't seen his brother since that first day, so it must be important.

 

'Ah, Darth Vader', Sherlock says. 'Of use, you may be, to me?'

 

Mycroft's mouth disappears into a sad line. Whatever he was going to say, he's quiet now.

 

'Haven't found Eurus yet, then', Sherlock deduces. 'Moriarty?' Though the consulting criminal probably really is dead. _Even though they never found a body_. Sherlock starts to get up.

 

'Won't you sit down?', Mycroft orders. He stares sadly at his brother. Sherlock's clearly barely been eating or sleeping. He's always been skinny, but now he's nearly translucent. He doesn't appear to be high, but you never know with Sherlock Holmes. There's a cot next to John's hospital bed, but it's barely been slept in. Sherlock's eyes are red-rimmed.

 

A sudden realization dawns on Sherlock, and he grows even more pale. 'That's not why you're here, is it, Mycroft?'

 

Mycroft averts his eyes and starts adjusting his tie, even though it's perfectly straight already.

 

'My intellectual abilities are of occasional use to the British government', Sherlock says monotonously, like a robot telling a story. 'So, you're not here out of interest for the activities for your little brother. I guess there is... one... final problem –'

 

'Stop it, Sherlock.'

 

'You can't have me stuck in here all day', he continues. 'Therefore...'

 

Mycroft just stares with sadness in his eyes as the door behind him opens, and doctor David Kuberner appears, holding a chart. Sherlock immediately steps closer to John, shielding his body with his own.

 

'No!' he yells.

 

'Mr Holmes', the doctor says soothingly. 'It's been five weeks now. Nothing has changed, no sign of improvement. We fitted him with a cardiograph. And I'm afraid the brain scans have shown... Well. This is not the kind of life John would have wanted.' _As if he would know what John wants._

 

'I can't do this! It's murder!' Sherlock shouts. He instinctively braces for a fight, puts his fists in the air. He is an excellent boxer after all, and even if his muscles have grown rather weak, the adrenaline will make up for that.

 

'This is not murder', doctor Kuberner says. 'I'm sorry, but... He's _never_ going to wake up.'

 

'And you're sure about this, David?' Sherlock spits at the man.

 

'Of course I'm bloody sure', he replies.

 

And that's when Sherlock finally loses it. He punches him in the face – a doctor, no less, or rather a sorry excuse for one – and David Kuberner falls half into Mycroft and half into the door. Mycroft reacts quickly and wraps himself around Sherlock, who's still trying to throw punches, elbowing his brother in the process. But Mycroft doesn't let go, grips his brother firmly from the back. 'Stop, no no! Stop!', Mycoft hisses. Sherlock keeps struggling, kicking, scratching. 'We won't do it!', Mycroft yells. 'Please. I will not kill! I will not have blood on my hands.'

 

Sherlock stills, shakily touching Mycroft's hands on his chest, not tearing them away just yet. It's as close to a hug the brothers have ever been. Sherlock is breathing heavily, as doctor Kuberner rises to his feet. His nose is bleeding. _Good._

 

'You won't press charges', Mycroft says flatly. 'You won't breathe a word of this to anyone, or I will personally make sure they find enough disturbing images on your computer to lock you up for twenty years. Now leave. You're fired from this patient's care.'

 

Kuberner glares at Sherlock, but the detective has already averted his eyes, escaping from his brother's grasp now, stepping closer to John, softly stroking his arm. 'We've got to be soldiers, John', he says quietly. 'Soldiers.'

 

After the doctor leaves, Mycroft and Sherlock stand in utter silence for a while. Neither of them wants to move the next chess piece. Then, Mycroft reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a gun. His brother's eyes open wide.

 

'You don't have to kill him', Mycroft says. He lays the gun on the bed, at John's feet. It seems so completely out of place, in this hospital room. The opposite of everything anyone wants to achieve here.

 

'What if I don't want a gun?' Sherlock asks. Guns have meant only pain, for himself and everyone he cares for. He's completely done with guns.

 

'The gun is intended as a mercy', his brother explains.

 

'For whom?'

 

'You.'

 

And with that, Mycroft leaves the room. Sherlock shakily reaches for the firearm. It only has one bullet left.

 

***  
  
The days pass by in a haze. Sherlock watches _All About Eve_ with John – it's Sherlock's choice of movie, now. Sometimes he reads excerpts from John's blog out loud, while commenting on the accuracy. _He looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school? Really John? Leave the deductions to me, will you?_  
Sometimes Sherlock plays the violin, for hours on end, heartachingly beautiful. Or he puts on music, a radio station, anything John might enjoy. Then Sherlock just stares at his body, hoping for a tiny spark of recognition. Though at one point Sherlock has to turn off Queen, frantically, he can't stand it. _God knows. God knows I've fallen in –_

 

***  


After a lonely night on Google, the door opens, hesitantly. Sherlock looks up from scrolling through his phone, lifts his long legs off his sleeping cot and sits up. His joints hurt, he feels slightly dizzy, he's too tired to cry anymore. The room is littered with medical books. He's been trying to teach himself.

 

'Molly Hooper', Sherlock says. Molly nods at him. She puts a bag on the small table in the room.

 

'Just some food I made for you. Mostly quiche.' A moment of silence. 'Sorry I didn't come earlier.'

 

'That's fine.' Is it? He's not sure.

 

'I was looking after Rosie. Well, that too. I was also afraid, to see ... I wanted you to be...' She keeps losing track of her thoughts, stuttering. She means well, Sherlock knows. But he's sick of people meaning well.

 

He stares at the floor. 'I'm not having a good day', he says. Even though technically, it's morning, so the day has barely started. When _does_ a day start or end when you don't really sleep, anyway? Time disappears, and yet, time has been his only companion. Time is torture, leaving wounds worse than any scars he acquired while undercover in Eastern Europe.

 

Molly sits next to Sherlock, leaving enough space between them to not make him uncomfortable. They're quiet for a while. _Why are all his visitors so quiet?_ Sherlock wonders if he should say something. It's been a while since he's had a conversation, well – with someone who replies, that is.

 

'So many days not lived, so many words unsaid', Molly mumbles.

 

'What?' Sherlock asks.

 

'You should just tell him, Sherlock. Even if he isn't answering.' She sucks in a breath, wondering if she overstepped a line. Carefully, she glances to her friend. Sherlock is just plainly staring at her, now. Blinking.

 

'Just say the words', she clarifies. But it's not clear, is it?

 

'What words?' Sherlock has completely frozen over now.

 

'I love you.' Molly breaks his gaze. Her breathing is erratic.

 

'Leave me alone', Sherlock says quietly. Molly tentatively puts her hand on Sherlock's arm, but he brushes her off, angrily. 'Why are you making fun of me?'

 

'Please, you just have to listen to me.'

 

'I'm not an experiment, Molly.'

 

'No, I know you're not an experiment. You're my friend. We're friends. But... Please. Just... say those words to him.'

 

'Just... Don't, Molly.'

 

'It could be important.'

 

'I can't.'

 

'Why?'

 

'Because... it's... true. It's always been true.' Sherlock can't look her in the eye. He's telling her his darkest secret. Once it's out, you can't take it back, can you?

 

Molly's eyes are glistening. She gets up, grabs her bag in a rush. 'I know. Just say it. He might hear you, you know.'

 

After she leaves, the room seems smaller than before. Sherlock gets up, stumbles over to the bed, where John is lying like a brave soldier, learning how to breathe again. Surely... John can't hear him. His brain scans were... a bit not good. But Sherlock must say it, mustn't he? Before it's really too late? He missed his chance once, on the tarmac. Made a joke out of it. But his feelings are not a joke. Not just a cheap, gay joke. There: he has allowed himself to think it. He's gay. A homosexual. He's never hidden it, has he? And yet...

 

His lips are close to John's ear.

 

'I...' His voice is hoarse, betraying the unexpected weight of the words. 'I... Love... You.'

 

It's odd to hear those words out loud. He's been holding it in for so long, hiding it, letting it slip from his face, _looking sad when he can't see you_. He had decided a long time ago, those feelings were irrelevant to their friendship and he would keep them safely tucked away. And they're still hidden, he supposes. Even if – when – John wakes up, he most certainly won't remember them.

 

'I love you', he repeats, more clearly now. He's caressing John's hair on his pillow, smoothing it out, he carefully traces John's jawline with his fingertips. Sherlock presses the softest kiss to John Watson's cheek.

 

***  


When Sherlock hears two soft thumps outside – likely the policemen at the door hitting the ground – he scrambles for his gun and stands next to John. His legs should be trembling, since he hasn't eaten for at least two days, but he is as still as a soldier. He feels like an animal with all his defenses raised, ready to lash out. _Soldiers, now, John._

 

The door slowly opens, and Mycroft enters. Right behind him, holding a gun to his head, is John's therapist. Her eye color is different, now – contact lenses, _clever_ – but it's clearly her.

 

'You're quite the committed therapist', Sherlock says, pointing his gun at her. He only has one bullet, so it has to count. 'But I'm afraid John will have to cancel. How's next Tuesday?'

 

He throws her a flash of a fake smile, then his face drops. 'Hello, Eurus.'

He's figured this one out, sitting by John's bedside for so long, with little else to think about – she was Faith Culverton, she was John's therapist and probably the woman John met on the bus, too. The one he felt so guilty about for flirting with, Sherlock remembers with a pang of regret.

 

'Hi bro', she laughs. 'This has been a long time coming, hasn't it? Me and Mycroft thought we'd have a nice little family reunion.'

 

'I will kill you', Sherlock announces, because it is a fact. He glances at Mycroft – his brother is lightly sweating, but putting on a brave face. 'You tried to kill my best friend. I'll _end_ you.' His voice betrays him when he speaks the words _best friend_.

 

'Yes', Eurus says. 'But before you kill me, I can probably fire one shot myself. So, it's your choice. It's make-your-mind-up time. Who do you need the most – John or Mycroft?'

 

Sherlock swallows. Instinctively he moves closer to John, but he keeps his eyes fixed on his sister. Mycroft stares at the floor.

 

'It's elimination round', Eurus says. 'You have to choose. Family or friend? Mycroft or John Watson?'

 

'Eurus, enough!', Mycroft says, braver than a man with a gun against the back of his neck should act. _Always the big brother_ , Sherlock thinks.

 

'Not yet, I think', Eurus replies, moving up and down Mycroft's neck with the barrel of her gun. Like she's petting a dog.

 

Mycroft swallows, and looks up, at Sherlock. 'Well?', he says.

 

'Well, what?', Sherlock answers.

 

'We're not actually going to discuss this, are we? I'm... sorry. Doctor Watson was a fine man in many respects. Now, make your goodbyes.'

 

Sherlock's blinks.

 

'Shoot doctor Watson', Mycroft orders Eurus. 'There's no question who has to live. Whatever lies ahead requires _brainpower_. Don't prolong his agony, shoot him.'

 

Right there and then, Sherlock almost shoots Mycroft himself, for daring to even say such things. _John will pull through_ , it's a simple fact. _Brainpower?_ How dare he? Sherlock winces.

 

'Make it swift', Mycroft continues. 'Get it over with.'

 

Eurus looks surprised. Curiously, she glances to the hospital bed – Sherlock will kill her for even _looking_ at John – and then meets Sherlock's eyes uncertainly. Mycroft turns around, facing her, ignoring the gun.

 

'I should have expected this', he tells Eurus. 'You shame us all. You shame the family name, Eurus Holmes. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing. Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him!'

 

'Stop it', Sherlock says.

 

Mycroft's shoulders tense. 'Why?'

 

'Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing.' Sherlock turns to Eurus. 'Ignore everything he just said. He's just being kind. He's trying to make it easy for me to choose him. Which is why this is going to be so much harder.'

 

'You said you liked my Lady Bracknell', Mycroft says. It's not an appropriate time for banter, is it though? His legs have started trembling uncontrollably now, but his voice is steady. He loosens his tie, still facing Eurus, keeping his back to Sherlock. 'Not in the face, though, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society.'

 

Eurus smiles. 'Where would you suggest?'

 

'Well', Mycroft says, 'I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me. I don't imagine it's much of a target but...'

 

'Mycroft...' Sherlock sounds deflated. 'I won't allow this.' But what is the alternative? He could never let her... No, not John. Not ever. Even if he's never going to wake up again, Sherlock needs to know that he has done everything in his power to help him.

 

Mycroft turns around to face his little brother. 'This is my fault', he says. 'Moriarty. He was her Christmas treat. Five minutes' conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago. Unsupervised.'

 

Sherlock lowers his gun a little. 'Five minutes? They came up with the Culverton scheme in five minutes?'

 

'Goodbye, brother mine. No flowers... By request', Mycroft says, and turns again, facing his executioner. He closes his eyes.

 

Eurus steps closer to Mycroft, puts the barrel of her gun against Mycroft's forehead. Her hand is scary steady. With her other hand, she puts her hair behind one ear. There's a childlike innocence to her, yet her eyes are stone cold. 'And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes', she whispers.

 

In that exact moment, Sherlock shoots her. One clean shot in the head. Mycroft's knees buckle, but no second gunshot rings. Eurus didn't have time to fire her gun. Hadn't even pulled back the safety yet, Sherlock had noted. A violently trembling Mycroft grips the edge of John's bed and slides to the floor. She _was_ right – Holmes killing Holmes.  
  
***

 

That evening, Sherlock decides to crawl into the hospital bed next to John. 'I know, I know, you're not gay', Sherlock tells John, half jokingly. 'As you keep reminding the world. The world won't explode, you know.' He puts on his pyjama pants and gets under the blanket, but doesn't really dare to touch John, afraid to hurt him. However, it feels so familiar, this warmth, this body next to him, that he finally stills. He hadn't even noticed it, but he had been trembling ever since Eurus died.

 

Before he falls asleep, he sings the childhood lullaby to John. 'I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep below the old beech tree...' Singing those cursed words Eurus used to taunt him with, reclaiming them as his own. It's strangely empowering.

 

He pulls the blanket over his shoulders. 'I am lost without your love', he confesses to John. 'Please come back. I'm just an idiot, but it's not too late.'

 

Sherlock carefully takes John's hand. 'Open your eyes', he whispers – prays – into the darkness that floods him like thick, black oil. 'I'm here.'

 

***

 

It's been thirteen weeks by John's bedside when mrs Hudson gives Sherlock the dvd. It's one of Mary's – he instantly recognises the handwriting.

 

'It arrived yesterday. I thought you two might watch it together', mrs Hudson says, glancing at John, who's lying so peacefully there, breathing steadily on his own now. The fact that he doesn't need any breathing tubes anymore, is a good sign, the doctors said. _But still._

 

'Has he...?' Mrs Hudson asks.

 

'No', Sherlock answers. He rubs through his curls, swallows. It feels like a personal defeat. But he'll wait forever if he has to.

 

'I'll leave you boys to it', his landlady says, and she grabs his head firmly and kisses Sherlock on the forehead. He's momentarily startled by the kindness of her gesture, but she's out the door before he has managed to unfreeze his body.

 

Sherlock reluctantly starts the dvd player. With trembling hands, he turns up the volume. Mary's face appears.

 

'PS. I know you two', Mary says. 'And if I'm gone, I know what you two could become... Because I know who you really are. A junkie who solves crimes to get high and the doctor who never came home from the war. Well, you listen to me: who you are, it doesn't really matter. It's all about the legend, the stories, the adventures. There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court of appeal for everyone. When life gets too strange, too impossible... When all else fails... there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat. Like they've always been there, and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known. My Baker Street Boys. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.'

 

Sherlock swallows. His mouth is dry. He can't even will himself to turn off the television, just stares at the static. They might never even be back together in that scruffy flat. He has failed everyone, failed himself, failed John. _He's_ now one of the desperate, the unloved. Where is _his_ refuge? Who can _he_ turn to?

 

Suddenly, the cardiograph starts beeping irregularly, and Sherlock rushes over to John, expecting the worst. But no – there lies the softest trembling man, beneath fluttering eyelids staring intensely at him. It's a strange moment, too strange, too impossible. Sherlock blinks rapidly. He just... can't wrap his mind around it – has imagined this moment time and time again and yet, now it's happened... It seems unreal. Like a fairytale.

 

But it's true. John Watson has woken up. And he's desperately scraping his throat, violently, seemingly in a hurry to speak. Sherlock's eyes fill with tears as his friend, the only person that has ever mattered and ever will, lifts his hand and unsteadily reaches for the detective's shirt. Sherlock lets John gently pull him closer to his face.

 

'F- fuck that', John says with a hoarse whisper. Sherlock smiles – of course John's first words would be a curse. 'Who you are... Sherlock. It really fucking matters.'

 

And with that, he presses his lips softly against Sherlock's.  


 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, Sherlock probably shouldn't have watched all those horror and Bond dvds in the hospital room. 
> 
> Also: I know some of it is a little far-fetched. But, is it really more far-fetched than The Final Problem?
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/)


End file.
